. The Poet's Beat .

. The Poet's Beat .
"A working class citizen is apt to see this country for what it's worth... A miasma of interlocking variations on differing demographics and geographies unlike any other inhabited space in the world. The American Dream. The rolling footloose hills and the upstanding Apache badlands where criminals cut bread with priests and the children of Hollywood. I am no different. Yet I am still brazen enough to think that the world is a playground built by the rugged hands of a hard-working man in order that my fantasies be materialized." -- P.P. Vonnersdale

Monday, May 28, 2012

Sweet Streets




Sweet streets swept clean by the dancing feathered heels of
     long-legged girls in lace and lipstick and serpents coiled in their
          timeless hair,
Sweet last look she scars you with as she holds you through
     the train’s cloudy coach window where in a finger smudged
          script read the words: TREES ARE PEOPLE TOO,
Sweet are the colors in their clothes dull earth tones orange
     as a setting sun cerulean blue skies and the hot reds of
          fires that burn below the ground,
Sweet sex on parade in the click click of their pointed shoes
     billowing dust storms on the floorboards and the long white
          fingers smoking pistols on those razor-edge hips,
Sweet sex in the silence between twirling hemlines and the
     softly clapping hands of an invisible audience overrun with
          ghosts and the empty forms ghosts refuse to haunt,

So Heaven did not descend quickly enough to save you,

And my arms were never strong enough to hold you,

Every face is some perverse memory begging you to trip
     and fall again,

Sweet snare suffocating you in the mistakes of your past but
     wearing the coy smile of the very GOTdamn golden bullet that
          reaped havoc in your heart and made you broken forever.

4.7.2012

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

The Road's Conclusion

An old poem from the open road, when I had just arrived in Denver and was exploring the place...


For one final time, I closed Jack's book on
the auditorium floor next to the stage waiting for Dylan.
I fled New York for Denver following the footsteps of Paradise,
not knowing the road beneath me was the original beat home.

And there I was alone in my fascination of
the newly discovered musical vibe around me,
opened to me by my lonely quest for miles
that led me to sit at the feet of a rock and roll legend.

What was this need to be impressed?
I was caught in the illusion,
swaying to the rhythmical current of the crowd all
lost in the sounds that were alive to me for the first time,
out on those same streets,
the inner workings of a magnet that Jack surely felt too,
finding Denver a stop-over that could not be avoided in
the long list of American wonder.

We all wanted to dig this place, yet up until now,
the only digging I had known was Seamus Heaney's.
Jack taught me the confinement of that dream.
I finished his book and woke up realizing
that Bob Dylan was a real human.

4.12.05

Wednesday, May 2, 2012

Pink Dolphins



I found you floating face up
In the brown curling jungle river

With a broken heart

Taking on water

Leeches in your eyes

The current lapping waves onto the islands
     of your pale breasts

You told me I could follow the stars

That their trails would take me home

But every star is where I came from

Every star is where I’m going

Tiny grey black-eyed perch kissing your skin
     where my own lips used to rest

Tan lines on your hips

Tiny wrinkles on your toes

My limbs wrapped in wet clothes like a new flesh

Draped over my hollow bones

Protecting the water inside of me from the water without

I wonder what you’ll see on the river tonight

When the world floats by in greens and sprinkles of stars

Conversations with pink dolphins

Comparing labia

As they sing shrill songs lamenting better days downstream

I call your name from the bridge

My voice a scream

An echo

Nonsense in the still darkness

Life must go on, you say

Ignoring my attempts to retrieve you

As your long hair swarms slow motion about your peculiar face

Life must go on

And I must forget you

Ten thousand jungle noises drown my reply

Invisible hands pull you away from me

Always slightly stronger than whatever I can muster

The Pirarucu whispers in your ear

It’s time to go

The Jaguar, always watching, drinks from a pool at your throat

Don’t leave me like this, I say

But without another word you fade into the muddy river

To become silt and sand

To eventually empty into an enormous lonely sea

I am left forever with the image of your long nipples
     slipping beneath the surface

Like duel periscopes

3.9.2012